


Collateral Damage

by Whreflections



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Non-Canon Michael - Freeform, Original Michael - Freeform, Polyamory, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: To keep Sam safe, Dean agrees to let Michael take him as his vessel. In the midst of their worry and grief, Sam still has his eyes on redemption, and Cas has his on vengeance.  Somewhere between all their personal problems, if they make the right set of choices, they just might be able to come together and save the world.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Michael/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> About 11 years ago, I sat down to write a platonic Sam & Dean snapshot for a challenge table, and I decided it would be about Dean saying yes to Michael, because in that AU, Michael could have also chosen Sam. This was early season 5; so much was possible lol 
> 
> A few things happened-
> 
> I was severely restricted because I had to keep it to less than 1,000 words—which is cool as a writing exercise, but not particularly cool as a chapter of something larger. 
> 
> I never intended it to be something larger, but then during a bus ride to another part of the college campus, an entire story basically info dumped itself into my brain. I didn’t write down as much of that as I wish I would have XD But, I remember the most vividly important bits—which is good, because I only made it about 6 chapters in before I got distracted and flitted elsewhere. 
> 
> It’s kind of a good thing, though, because I wasn’t yet ready to write wincest, and this story needs wincest. It is primarily a destiel and Sam/Michael story, yes, but it really at its core wanted and needed to be a poly story—but I kept shying away from that. Part of it was because I wasn’t quite ready, but I have the benefit of my own memories, and I know that quite frankly, the biggest part of it was being afraid of how people would react, because that was juuust on the cusp of the vocal minority of destiel fans who hated wincest starting to become more vocal. I was afraid of being yelled at, and of driving away readers. 
> 
> I’m not afraid of those things anymore; I’m in a place where I can do whatever is best for the story. So, I can tell you at the outset that it’s probably going to be a poly configuration of Castiel/Dean, Dean/Sam, and Sam/Michael. All three relationships will likely by the end coexist at the same time—if the wincest ends up being mostly physical or only temporary, that’s unlikely, but possible. I want to give this story the chance to go the way it needs to. 
> 
> What I had before was stuff I was proud of—but I’m still a better writer now, so I will be making some slight edits. So, if you read the story years ago, you may be in for some slight non-enormous changes. I cannot promise any kind of update schedule, both because life and also because I’m working on a long fic that will probably become my 2021 Big Bang at the same time. I do, however, really want to see this through. 
> 
> …now after all that, onto the show.

There were a million articles that described how to identify a dream. In his desperation to try and make Dean address the nightmares they didn’t talk about that hadn’t left him since hell, Sam had read Dean several of them. The reminders could flick through his head rapid as a flip book, memories of Sam lit by the glow of his computer in a dozen different roadside motels. 

_There’s a lot of lore that says you’re not likely to look down at your hands in dreams, so try to force it—you might have extra fingers, or your hands might be blurry. That can tell you you’re dreaming. If you know you’re dreaming, sometimes you can learn to change the dream, or decide to wake up._

_There’s anecdotal evidence that at least a significant number of people are unable to read in dreams, or at least can’t read consistently. It’s a little like the hand thing; if you think of it, and if you’re somewhere you can deliberately look at words, that might help shake your mind out of it._

_This test might be the easiest one for you—check your weapons. If they aren’t where you know you would put them or you aren’t wearing them, you know you’re dreaming._

Even when they didn’t help, every one of Sam’s attempts had still settled on him like balm, and he’d never said. If they made it through this—hell, if they got even a few weeks past freeing the devil—they might shift back to a good enough place to tell him how much it had meant. 

When Michael came to him, he didn’t need a single test, even if he could have remembered to do one. There was a stillness to Bobby’s house around him that didn’t feel quite right—and no world in which there would have been a man he didn’t know up here in the spare bedroom they’d shared since they were kids, not while Sam was asleep. 

“I’m dreaming,” Dean said. If Sam was right, the certainty would give him some power—though he wasn’t at all sure what power that might be when his dream was in someone else’s hands.

The red haired stranger at the foot of the bed had an easy smile. Leaning against the wall, he didn’t look like he felt the slightest bit out of place. “Yes, Dean. You are dreaming.” 

The bedside rug gone threadbare from years felt hard and real under his bare feet as he stood up—he could feel the circle where he’d dropped a cigarette trying to smoke up here when he was 15. “Alright. And who are you? Angel? Demon? You know at this point, I really don’t give a shit. “ Dean stepped closer, closing distance.

Whoever he was, his soft laughter grated against Dean’s pride. He wouldn’t be fucking cowed or condescended to; not in his own goddamn head. “What do you want?”

“I’m Michael.” 

The tension that shot up Dean’s spine and took him back a step was all instinct. Away from the threat; still solidly between it and Sam. He’d been building that reflex his entire life. 

“Relax, please,” Michael said. There were no lines of tension in him, no hint of movement. An alligator, too, went completely still before a strike. “I have no intentions of taking you by force.”

“God, doesn’t _that_ sound wrong.”

“Very good.” Michael smirked, and his stillness broke. He moved as if uncaring that Dean mirrored him, following the line of the dresser until he stopped at the halfway point and leaned back his hands splayed across the old wood that in reality was covered with odds and ends. Here, in the dream, it was bare—if he made it out of this dream, he could tell Sam. Another sign. “Trust me, even if I could force you, I wouldn’t want to. The very idea is repulsive, I assure you. Whatever Zachariah may have done to you, he did not have my consent. I have never coerced a vessel by cruel means, nor do I intend to start now.” 

Another step back pressed the edge of the bed into Dean’s thigh. Throwing his hand back, if he had to, he could wake Sam—and in a dream, that would probably do fuck all, but he couldn’t be sure the level of reality he was working with, here. He had to plan as if it mattered, in case it did. “So, what, you think you can get in my head, try to make friends and change my mind? Sorry, pal, but I have no intentions of being anyone’s fucking clothes. This is _my_ body and I’m keepin’ it.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Dean.”

“Fucking please. Jimmy—"

“Castiel has taken only one vessel before now, did you know? He isn’t too familiar with how it works, how to best care for his host. He is learning, however.” Michael’s eyes soften, seemed something far too close to kind. Even with distance between them, Dean could see that they were an unusual shade of grey, light like fog. It should have looked more unsettling. 

Michael gestured at his own chest. “This man, Aaron O’Conner, gave me his permission, and when I took his form in 1965 I lived with him for two years before leaving him, and he returned to his family without consequence.”

“Without consequence? They didn’t wonder where the hell he’d been for two years?”

Michael’s shrug would have given him another reminder of how inhuman he was, if he’d needed one. He hadn’t. 

“He sorted it out. But just think, Dean, how much easier it would be on you. _Your_ family already understands.”

“I already told Zach my answer to this question, but if you want to hear it for yourself, fine.” Dean’s chin tilted up, his stare unblinking. “ _No_.”

“That’s the answer you gave to _him_ , and as I said, he was wrong to approach you that way. I would’ve come on my own, in time. I’ve never liked Zachariah or his methods. On the other hand,” He smiled, warm. “Castiel and I have been close brothers for generations.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a match to the jolt in his stomach. Cas hadn’t said anything—but then, under the circumstances, there hadn’t been an overwhelming amount of time. Still, there was the edge of a sting to it, an uncomfortable echo. He was so goddamn tired of fumbling in the dark. “And what does he think about all this, huh?”

“He would rather I didn’t take you, but his reasons are…” The flick of Michael’s eyes to Dean’s left shoulder seemed to bore through the cotton of his t-shirt. “Anchored in emotion and possession rather than reason. He knows I will not harm you. And that for the sake of his feelings toward you I will be even more careful to return you to him and the rest of your family undamaged.” 

_Undamaged_. God, it made him sound like furniture. The revulsion couldn’t settle; it felt like something clawing at his stomach from the inside out. “No. Hell no.” 

“Dean,” Michael sighed. His regret was so palpable, it almost sounded real. “You leave me no choice.”

“What happened to ‘I won’t take you by force’, huh?”

“I won’t. But I didn’t want to bring this up.” Michael stepped forward, his eyes darkening just enough to be noticeable. Less fog, more a thunderhead before a storm. It flashed through his mind that the true form of this one had to be fucking terrifying, a real Revelations monstrosity with screaming heads of inhuman wrath and eyes on his goddamn teeth. “You are not the only one of your bloodline, Dean. I have received another offer. And if you don’t allow me, he is willing.” 

Automatically his eyes flicked to the bed, to the version of Sam in his mind that slept undisturbed. The urge to reach back and grab his ankle was almost overwhelming. 

“That’s right. The little brother you have sleeping beside you now, the one you’ve tried so hard to protect, he _will_ let me take him, Dean. He has told me as much. I walked his dreams tonight also.”

“You son of a _bitch_ , you had no—"

“I had every right, Dean. You have given every indication of being unapproachable.”

The rise in Dean’s heartbeat mirrored his desperation, easily drowning his revulsion out. He had no drive that went deeper than this, no hierarchy of needs without Sam at its core. “He has demon blood,” Dean said. It was vehement, triumphant. He had never been happy for that fact, until that very moment.

Michael only hummed. “He’s learning to control it, more and more every day. And my presence will overpower it.” 

It was either the dream or the cloud of adrenaline; Dean had barely noticed that Michael had pushed away from the dresser, that the two of them had come so close in the space between where he’d been and Sam’s side of the bed. Dean was close enough now to feel heat from the archangel’s body, the raw power radiating off his frame to pound like bass against Dean’s chest, out of tempo with his heart.

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Dean said. “He’s been through enough.”

“I give you my word, Dean, I will take care of him.”

“You won’t lay a goddamn finger on him.”

Michael closed the last distance by stepping closer, one hand striking out viper fast to take Dean’s chin in his hand. For all the shock of it, his grip was disturbingly gentle. “Is that your choice, then? Will _you_ permit me?”

Dean couldn’t bear to look at him—it was everything he had not to jerk away, but there was nowhere left to go. If he moved, he wouldn’t be in front of Sam anymore—and God, wasn’t there a metaphor in that. “I can tell you one thing, Mike. This counts as cruel means.”

“That’s unfair.”

“I don’t think so.” With a deep breath, he gathered himself enough to look in Michael’s eyes. Settled, again, like morning mist. “Tell Cas I think you’re a dick, will you?”

Michael’s lips quirked up, just slightly. “I assure you, Castiel will express his disapproval without your help.” 

Decision made, Dean allowed himself to jerk just his head away. Shockingly, Michael let him go with an easiness that seemed almost lazy. “Give me a minute with Sam.” 

He was awake as soon as the words left him, eyes snapping open to take in Bobby’s guest room and moonlight and Sam, fast asleep and turned toward Dean in a bed too small but utterly familiar. The clutter of the room was back; he could hear the slight knock and tick of the air conditioner settling off in the attic. He was out of the dream; there could be no doubt. 

His hand hovered over Sam’s shoulder, deciding. The temptation was strong to let him sleep. For a moment, history came for him so thick it took his breath, his heart and head yanked violently back to Nebraska in the middle of winter, just after he’d turned 16. He’d had rough moments before, but this was the first time he was going out after something he knew could absolutely kill him—hunting the manticore, he wouldn’t be with dad every minute, and Sam’s voice from years ago had pressed on him like barbed wire.

_If they got mom, they could get dad. They could get us._

His chin had shook more than his hand; he remembered how hard he’d had to bite his lip to stop it. It wasn’t the dying that scared him quite so much, not even then—that was terrifying, of course, because he knew it would hurt, but worse was the thought of Sam waking up to dad coming back alone. 

All that had stopped him was knowing that if he woke Sam up, he wouldn’t stop until he’d come with him. Up to that point in his life, the hardest thing he’d ever done was kissing his forehead, and walking out the door. He could still feel the cold of the knob burning his hand outside in his memory, the moment he’d taken to lean into the door and gasp in the cold until it hurt his lungs. If he didn’t come back, Sam would never forgive him. If he’d been stronger, he could have told him goodbye without saying it, just in case. 

Gently, Dean reached over, and shook his brother awake.

The sound he made waking up from a dead sleep hadn’t changed that much since he was 12. “Dean?”

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean murmured. It was steady; he could pride himself on that. 

“Too early. Go back to—"

“Sam.” That, that was all it took. His instincts tripped, and Sam came fully awake then. It was fascinating, like a thrown switch—unique, but unsurprising. In every way they knew each other more than anyone alive, even now. “Just had a talk with Michael.”

Sam’s eyes flashed wide with panic, his grip when he grabbed at his shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Dean, no, I told him I’d—"

“Yeah, I know you did,” Dean said. He couldn’t bear to hear it out loud; he couldn’t bear to think it. “And I know you would. But you’re not.”

“Dean, no, please, you said it yourself, this is my fault, man. Let me—"

“No, _no_ , just shut up about it, alright?” If there was ever a time he didn’t want to argue, it was now. With Sam, it was always, if he was honest, but he’d said shit he hadn’t yet had time to take back, words he didn’t want to live with. One of these days, he’d learn to hold his tongue. “This is how it’s gonna be.”

His eyes were too well adjusted to the low light to miss the tears in Sam’s eyes. The ache of them nearly drove him out of bed, but if this was his last time looking at Sam with his own eyes, under his own power, he wouldn’t use that to turn away from him. Not for the world. 

“Why? After everything I—why would you—"

“Cause I’m your big brother, that’s why.” 

Dean looked just long enough to see it hit him, just enough for that flicker in his baby brother’s eyes that was the same as it had been the first time Dean had given Sam his stuffed tiger during a tornado warning. Hunkered down in the basement under dad’s arms with the siren blaring on the emergency radio, he’d looked over at Dean with such a mix of awe and hurt and love too pure and bright to be real. What could he have ever been, after that, but everything Sam needed? How could he be anything but his hero, when Sam looked at him like he had a choice not to be? 

There never had been a choice, not for him, not one he could have borne. This weight, it would be nothing next to how he felt when he let Sam down. 

Dean spoke before Sam could cut him off. “Mike? I’m ready.” 


	2. Chapter 2

At Castiel’s touch, Bobby’s front door slammed open, ricocheting off the wall with a force that sent a handful of more precariously placed books cascading into the floor. The organization only made sense to Bobby, but at another time, he might have felt guilt. At the moment, as blasphemous as it might be, he had no room in his chest for feelings that were not his own. Of those, he felt so full he could scarcely breathe.

“Where is he?” Castiel asked. The cold fury in his voice rang out sharper than even he’d expected, and he didn’t need to turn his head to know that Bobby was almost frightened. He could taste his fear in the air, feel it slide like oil over his wings. Later, he would apologize. 

“In the backyard. He said you’d—”

“Stay inside.”

He couldn’t bear to hear that Michael had foretold his coming, as if he’d needed to. Where else would he go, with Dean held captive? What else would he do after his brother had broken his word, but show up to force him to admit it?

The certainty that an admission of guilt was the most he could hope for brought an unfamiliar sickness that made him wonder if he knew, now, how humans felt when vertigo hit them.

He didn’t let it slow him. Castiel stormed through the house, came out the back to find Sam sitting on the back porch just beside the door, watching the yard with an expression that would’ve been more at home on a beaten dog. For Sam’s sake—or, most accurately, perhaps, for the sake of all Dean had taught him about caring for him—he paused long enough to ghost his hand across Sam’s hair. “Sam.”

Even now, there was gratification in seeing that Sam looked up at him, and brightened. 

“Cas, it’s so good to see you, man,” Sam said. “I was gonna summon you as soon as—"

“Leave us, Sam. Now. Please.” 

His last look back to the yard last seconds, and still he managed to tear his eyes away. The sheer weight in his half nod just before he stood was palpable. He let himself in through the screen without a word, held it carefully so it didn’t bang, and he didn’t look back. 

It wasn’t like Sam to take anything without question. Whether his acceptance was a mark of trust, or a sign that he’d already endured that day alone more than he could bear, Castiel couldn’t be sure—though he knew which was more likely. For once, Sam listened without asking a single question. Rather than let it hurt, Cas tried to be grateful. He was low on patience, and not in the mood or position to explain. It was just as well.

For a benefit, it felt oddly like a defeat.

Near the entry to the maze that was Singer Salvage, the man that had been sitting on the hood of the Impala stood, and rubbed dust off onto his jeans. “Castiel.”

The voice was warm and rough and familiar, with just a tiny edge that shouldn’t have been there, but there was a deeper level of _wrong_ to the way his name sounded on his tongue. It sliced through Castiel’s chest like the slick press of a blade, had him with the lapels of that old leather jacket in his hands before he could even register movement off the porch. In that first moment, it was almost as if nothing had changed—it was easy as ever to shove that too-familiar body up against the car, and trap him there. At that point, Dean usually was pulling on him, hands fisting in his shirt or curling around his tie. 

The reminder of Dean’s lack of control over his own hands wasn’t soothing.

“I asked you, I _begged_ you not to do this! The years we’ve served together, the years I have called you my friend, my _brother_ , and you betray me now with _this_ , Michael?” Castiel’s hands tightened around the leather until his knuckles turned white, and he shook him none too gently. “I trusted you! You swore to me you wouldn’t—"

“Castiel, please, be reasonable!” Michael smiled, a little sheepish, and Castiel fought the very human urge to be violently sick. The expression was Dean, the warm skin he could feel brush against the back of his hand was Dean, but the light in those soft green eyes…that was unrecognizable. “I did not break my word to you, little brother. He is unharmed. I haven’t even restricted him entirely, just enough.” 

“Unharmed?” The concept seemed impossible—he knew how much space an archangel could take up in Heaven alone. He knew the sight of their true forms—all horns and eyes and wheels of fire. Castiel let out a harsh breath, and shoved Michael harder against the car. “Tell me that he’s alright; that he’s not hurting. Tell me that he’s not struggling.” 

Michael hesitated, and that would have really been all the answer he needed to know. He had to have seen the violence in Castiel’s eyes, though, and he brought a hand up in a placating gesture, buying himself a second’s thought. “He is…uncomfortable, for the time being. I’m not putting undue stress on him, I promise. This would be so much easier, entirely pain free if he wouldn’t fight me and I _told_ him as much. But he’s stubborn, this one.” When Michael smiled, the brightness of his eyes hurt. “I can see how he drew you in. He does have a magnificent soul, brother. I think he’s my favorite I’ve had so far, honestly.” 

The growl that rattled from his chest came entirely unbidden. It was feral, powerful, and not nearly enough to scare an angel that vastly outranked him. A clap of accompanying thunder sounded overhead, chased by whipping wind. Around them, the creak of metal sang beneath the sharp crack and pop of a lightning strike on the hood of an old VW bus. 

It would have put the fear of God in any man. 

Michael glanced up at a lattice of lightning dancing under the belly of a thunderhead, and sighed. “Oh, Castiel, _please_. Enough, I understand, you hate me for this. There’s no sense in taxing your powers like this; I won’t fight you. We both know how that would end, and I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Let him go,” Castiel said. His voice was low, rough with rage and something dangerously close to baring the pain he could feel clawing at his ribs. “Let him go, Michael, _now_.” 

“You know I won’t. I have a job to do first, and the sooner you work _with_ me to get it done—"

“ _Never_.” He was seething, the words forced out through clenched teeth. The very thought was repulsive. “I will never help you again. I came to you in faith; I asked you—"

“Not to hurt him, yes, I _know_! And I swear, he made the choice on his own!” 

Castiel cocked his head, his grip easing a fraction in his curiosity. _On his own_? It hardly seemed possible. Last he’d been alone with Dean—if he swallowed against the searing pain of the memory, it was still clear. Dean had been far from ready to surrender—with Sam working hard to make amends, he’d been positively optimistic, for Dean.

“He did, truly. I…I told him that I if he would not agree, I had another option for a vessel and I would—"

Castiel’s fist snapped out, slamming hard enough into Michael’s jaw that he felt the bone give, and heard it crack. The snap was satisfying, for a half a heartbeat—

Until Michael sighed, and rolled his neck, and the bone knitted itself together again. “A beautiful show of pig-headed futility. Did I not tell you? I haven’t restrained him fully, to appease _you_ ironically enough. He can feel _everything_ . You _know_ it won’t hurt me, but him...” 

“Dean…” The horror in his gasp was visceral, a sharp and heavy weight plummeting from chest to stomach. The force of it was so strong he let go, and almost staggered back at the loss. He had _hurt_ Dean, badly. He broke _bone_ ; he shattered it. He’d been too worked up, too furious to think straight, to realize that for all his rage at Michael, and all that he could not accept his lover reduced to a vessel, the reality of the situation would not adapt to his shortcomings.

Dean was a vessel. Castiel’s acceptance was not required. 

“Dean, I…” It was hard, impossibly hard to talk to him without looking at him. If he looked up, all he’d see was Michael. Even looking away, knowing he could hear, and never answer under his own power, unaltered…it twisted Castiel’s heart, the pain overpowering the rage so swift and sudden he nearly choked. “Dean, I’m sorry.” 

“Oh don’t worry,” Michael said. His calm was jarring, grating. Overhead, thunder boomed. “He’s busy cursing me for upsetting you. He didn’t mind.” At a glance, Cas could see his brother curling his lover’s mouth into an easy smile, hands that had been there to shake him up or reach out to him with unspeakable tenderness coming back to rest comfortably against the black sheen of the Impala. “He wanted me to tell you, earlier, that he thought I was a dick.”

Of course he had. It was strange, to think to himself that he could hear it in Dean’s voice, when it was, in fact, Dean’s voice telling him—and yet, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t. The cadence was different; everything was different. Castiel swallowed convulsively, and fought the sound of fury that ached to rip from his lungs. The urge to flee was overwhelming, to leave his vessel and spiral into the sky, screaming with his _true_ voice until every window in the northern hemisphere shattered. 

Michael sighed. When Castiel didn’t look at him again, it was the sound of his boots scuffing through dust that tipped him off before he was close enough to lay a hand against his shoulder. “Castiel, I’m sorry, alright? I swear to you, if I could have taken another vessel, if there was another living Winchester outside of these two boys, I wouldn’t have done this.” His voice softened, a gentle whisper. “I _know_ how you love him, and believe me, it pains me to hurt you. But I had no choice. Lucifer is of utmost importance, here. We cannot allow him to rise simply because Dean Winchester is stubborn.” 

_Stubborn_. It was true, undoubtly, but not the first word that came to his mind when he thought of Dean. Not at all. 

Before Michael could catch him, Castiel shot his arm out to tug the jacket from Michael’s shoulders, sharp and hard, effectively pinning his arms behind his back until he had room to yank the grey t-shirt sleeve he wore up to press his hand to the brand that fit it like a glove. Beneath his hand, the body he’d remade went rigid, a soft gasp breaking free from Michael’s throat.

Castiel twitched, and fought the urge to pull his hand back. It wasn’t _for_ him, and still, the point had to be made. “Can you feel that?”

For Michael, it might as well have been a puzzle; the fascination in his eyes was far stronger than any guilt. “I…no. No. I’m aware it’s a conduit of power, but it’s an awareness only, without the sensation—but he can. I can…sense it. It’s a very strong connection. Another time, and they’d have called it powerful magic. It’s clear you sacrificed much to raise him from the Pit; I commend you.” 

If nothing else, Dean could still feel him there. Later, there might be comfort in that.

Castiel’s hand flexed against the print, felt the roil of its bubbled ridges beneath his palm, stroked his thumb along the edges. The prayer murmured in his soul as he pulled his hand away was for only Dean to feel the tenderness in the caress. “I wasn’t looking for your congratulations.” His eyes locked with Michael’s, foreign and achingly familiar. “I was making a point. This body was not yours to take. I rebuilt it with my own hands, gave him life from _my_ own Grace. He belongs to me, as surely as we belong to God.” Blasphemy, perhaps, but Castiel couldn’t care. Putting life in someone’s hands made them reckless to protect it, and his Father had to have known as much when He sent him to retrieve Dean from Hell. The soul Castiel had held in his arms at his moment of triumph had been hard won, _his_ by right of battle and creation and love. He had ripped a piece of his Grace from his own chest, cradled Dean’s broken soul in his arms and began to rebuild. In his eyes, they could never belong to anyone but each other, after that. 

“Castiel, no one disputes your claim! Certainly, you have every right to be at his side! Did our Father not make His intentions known, after all, when he breathed life into you after your encounter with Sandalphon? Castiel, my friend…” 

The stroke of Dean’s calluses by Michael’s touch on his cheek made Castiel flinch. 

To his credit, perhaps, Michael held steady. “He gave you to Dean. To each other. A beautiful gift indeed, and you are entitled to be as ragingly possessive of it as you like.” Michael’s murmur was soft, and steel strong. Undisputable. “As soon as I have dealt with our brother.” 

The thunder was fading. In the silence between them, the rise and fall of Dean’s breath came horribly familiar. In what felt now like another life, he’d counted those breaths, waiting beside Dean’s hospital bed for a miracle. Closing his eyes, he felt Micheal’s hand fall slowly from his cheek. 

“You are right, Michael,” Castiel said. “I hate you for this. And I will never forgive you.”

“You see? We all must sacrifice something. I would give anything not to lose you.”

A hundred years ago, the sincerity might have made him weep. Then, the twinge was so brief, so there-and-gone he could swallow it, and let it go. “There are lines, Michael. There are lines not to be crossed.” Clenching his fist, the bite of nails into his palm felt reassuringly human. Dean had taught him that _feeling_ the world around him mattered. Dean had taught him more than anyone but his Father ever had. “I love him.” 

“And he loves you, though he’s been afraid to say it.” 

Even with Michael saying it, there was a traitorous jolt in his heart, almost as if it were real. Almost. 

“Castiel, please,” Michael said. “I will take care of him. You must trust me. Here—” Reaching out slowly, Michael took his hand, and pulled it to rest gently over his—over _Dean’s_ —heart. Castiel could feel the steady beat, the _humanity_ of it—all of it fake, and wrong. Under those circumstances, Dean’s heart would have been going with the rapid patter of artillery fire, not even and easy. It was artificial; it was Michael—and still, Castiel closed his eyes, and let all the other sound fade until the wet comfort of its pounding was all he could hear. “He’s still alive. He’s whole. He’s safe with me, and I won’t take him from you.” 

Castiel shuddered. His eyes were too heavy to open. “Right now, what is he thinking?”

“That he hates me, of course. I believe his exact words were, ‘ _Stop screwing with him you pompous son of a bitch_ ’, if it makes you feel any better.” Michael’s laugh was short and sharp, a pattern familiar not from the front seat of the Impala, but the dawn of time. “But I doubt it.” Stepping closer, he kept Castiel’s hand trapped tight against his chest, pressed full to the evidence of his unnatural calm. “He wishes he could comfort you, but he knows he can’t. He’s frustrated. And did I mention that he hates me?”

Castiel let out a slow breath, his hand fisting unconsciously around the familiar cloth against his hand. With his eyes closed, and the rhythm discounted in favor of cloth and heat, it _felt_ like Dean. “Tell him not to worry. I will be fine.”

“He thinks that’s bullshit.”

Nothing about this partial comfort could be good, or healthy, and still. Still, Castiel pressed closer.

“Yes. It’s bullshit.”

“You’re worrying unnecessarily. He is safe, with me. I can heal him, like I healed his jaw—it took seconds; you know—”

It was far, far too soon for Cas to let himself consider that memory. With a shake of his head, he powered forward instead. 

“And if Lucifer defeats you? If he casts you from this vessel, if he binds you so you cannot heal? There are a million possibilities, Michael. He is not a normal adversary, and he _can_ hurt Dean. I know he can.” 

“I won’t let him.” 

“I don’t trust you.”

Michael’s laughter still wasn’t Dean’s. In all likelihood, it never would be again. 

“Yes. Yes, Castiel, I know.” His warm palm cupped against Castiel’s cheek, his other arm sliding sudden and unbidden around his waist to pull him against this body he knew so well. It was the matter of reflex to push forward those last inches until his head to rest in the crook of his neck. Reflex, and horror, and an instinctive drive for comfort from his lover so deep that scent must have triggered it. For a moment, he sank into the embrace. He couldn’t help it. It was too real, too _Dean_. He smelled like leather and gasoline and blood, and Castiel wanted to grip him tight and breathe it in until he forgot that it wasn’t really Dean he was holding. 

Michael, damn him, couldn’t let him forget. “It’s alright, brother,” Michael whispered. The card of his fingers through Castiel’s hair was gentle, skilled and careful. “It’s alright; it is. And should you need—I will do whatever helps you. And he can feel everything.” 

The tentative truce in his own war against his revulsion cracked—likely due to the violence with which he was forced to bite back the temptation. Even then, it took all he had to let go, but he managed it, pushing away and shaking his head. “No. _No_. I want him. Dean, or nothing.” 

Michael shrugged, a tinge of sadness in his eyes that Castiel wouldn’t let himself dwell on. “As you will. He is not opposed, in case you change your mind.” 

If he knew Dean—and he did, absolutely—there was almost certainly some form of opposition in his mind. What it was, and how he’d feel if Cas had been willing to kiss him right then—those were questions he may never find answers to. 

Castiel was stubborn, too.

After a long silence, Castiel stooped, and picked up the leather jacket from where it lain in the dust. It settled around him like a mantle of honor, unearned and out of place. “Castiel. Come with me. Help me fight Lucifer.” 

Stock still, Castiel didn’t himself so much as a twitch.

Eventually, as the clouds began to roil again above the salvage yard, he heard Michael sigh. “Very well. I will miss you, my brother. I’ll be back from time to time, I’m sure.” The sound of wings unfurling flittered out into the space between them, and by the time Castiel looked up, he was gone. 

His breath caught, dizzying, and he sank to his knees by the Impala, let his forehead rest against the warm metal. His chest ached, and he wasn’t even sure how long he’d be able to feel it, how long it was healthy, how long it took before being heartsick should technically kill you. If humans lived through this all the time, they deserved far more respect than they got from most of his kind. 

He felt Sam’s arm around his shoulders, warm and solid. He was immensely grateful when Sam didn’t try to pull him to his feet, but sank to the ground beside him instead. 


End file.
